“You bet,” the shorter woman said. “We’re a charity group, you see. We make things and sell them at craft fairs. Part of the money goes to the woman who made the item and part to our fund for good causes.”
“Which this year,” the taller woman said, “will be all the preparations for the TV special.”
“I imagine you’re excited about that, being next door to Sam and all,” Emma said. “And with you redecorating his house.”
“It is exciting,” Anna admitted, holding back a smile as she thought of the scene on the sofa not long ago.
“We’d best be toddling along, Emma,” the taller woman said. “And goodness, I’ve forgotten my manners. I’m Lettie Godwin, and this here’s Emma Simpson. Call us if you need help or have questions about the guild. We’d be pleased to have you join.”
“Thank you,” Anna said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
After the women left, Tessie gave her a sheepish look.
“Sorry about that. But this TV special and now your part in it have been the talk of the town. Not much goes on in Sumersbury, and this is more excitement than we’ve had since the Christmas Edgar Madison took the pledge and spent the first week of December sober.”
Anna laughed. “I’ve apparently been the talk of the town before this all happened. Little did I realize I was routinely discussed as that city woman who bought the McCormick place.”
“Yes, you were.” Tessie’s eyes twinkled.
“Listen, before I ask you my weaving questions, there’s one thing I can’t forget. I need a handmade quilt for Sam’s sleigh bed, and the name of someone who has them to sell or can make one up to order. Any suggestions?”
“You may not like my suggestion.”
“Why?”
“Because the best person to contact about that is the president of the Sumersbury Craft Guild.”
Anna rolled her eyes. “Estelle Terwiliger.”
“The same. But honestly, she knows who is making quilts. Because quilts don’t use yarn, I’m not privy to that information, generally.”
“I guess I hoped you could be my contact point for all that sort of thing. I also need a sofa, a chair and an ottoman reupholstered. I’ll provide the material, but I hate to ship the pieces all the way to New York to have them done.”
“Now that I can help you with,” Tessie said. “I have a good friend who does that. Let me get her card.”
As Tessie hurried to the back of the shop, Anna rested one hip against the counter and gazed at the bins of colored yarns. Soon she’d picked the ones she’d use for her client’s dresser scarf. She was discovering that there was a market for hand-woven goods. Sam’s grandmother might have been able to bring in quite a bit of money with her work, if she’d been so inclined. Anna filed the information away to think about later, among other things, while she was weaving.
By the time she left Tessie’s shop, the sun had disappeared behind a growing bank of flannel-gray clouds, and the temperature had dropped several degrees. She stopped by the Sumersbury grocery for tea bags and a package of chocolate chip cookies. The weather was turning just right for a cozy fire, tea and cookies, and her weaving.
Late afternoon found her making good progress on her tablecloth, so she got up from the bench to stretch and bring in more logs for the fire. She’d eaten cookies and sipped tea all afternoon, and she didn’t feel like cooking dinner.
She grabbed her jacket from the hook by the back door and went out through the porch to the yard. Dusk had come earlier than usual because of the clouds, and a cool, moist breeze blew her unzipped jacket open. She zipped it and walked toward the woodpile.
As she approached, a gray squirrel scampered away from its perch on top of the stacked logs. Anna wished it would come back. Her quiet afternoon of weaving had convinced her that she’d be very happy to spend winter weekends like this. The peaceful setting, the soothing repetition of the shuttle and beater bar and the crackling heat of the fire all satisfied her enormously. But she was having a small problem with solitude.
Maybe a not so small problem, she acknowledged as she piled three medium-size pieces of wood in the crook of her arm and returned to the house. The afternoon had been wonderful, but as the evening approached, she suddenly found herself wishing Sam was there to share the cozy setting with her. She appreciated his willingness to give her the space she’d asked for, but now she was realizing that unless she contacted him, she’d probably spend the rest of the weekend alone with her weaving.
“Well, phooey,” she muttered, and took the wood inside to stack it on the hearth. Then she went back for another load, figuring she might as well stock up and not have to stumble around out here in the dark later. She had a flashlight, but the beam was weak. On her way back in, she cocked her head and listened for Sam’s harmonica. Nothing. With a sigh she carried her bundle inside.
As the countryside grew dark outside her windows, she built up the fire and sat on the floor in front of it. She should have accepted the loan of Sam’s awful chairs, she thought, chuckling at herself. She’d spent her summer weekends out on the back porch, reading and thinking. The lack of furniture in the house hadn’t bothered her then.
At last, when her fanny got sore from sitting on the pine floor, she got up and went out to the back porch. A cushioned metal porch chair was better than a hard-backed dining room chair she concluded, maneuvering the thing through the kitchen and around the table in the dining room.
Once the chair was in place, she decided a glass of wine was in order, and she returned to the kitchen and poured some. Settled at last in her porch chair, she held up her glass of Merlot and enjoyed the flicker of flames through the rose-red wine. “Here’s to you, Sam,” she murmured, and took a generous sip.
She leaned back and enjoyed the warm ambience of the fire she’d built. She’d learned the technique one Christmas when her parents had rented a place in the country and organized a big family reunion. She hadn’t thought about that Christmas in years, but she wondered if perhaps that isolated experience had created her nostalgia for this kind of life.
Whatever drove her, she needed this setting and hoped to keep it part of her life. Sam felt the same way, and that enhanced his appeal. Sam. What was he doing tonight? In only a short time she’d returned to thoughts of him. He hadn’t serenaded her with his harmonica, or if he had, the breeze had blown the notes away.
Maybe he wasn’t even home. He could be out with friends. Or he might be home alone, just as she was. He might even be catching up on accounting paperwork so that he’d have more free time next weekend.
But which was it? The need to know became more urgent with every passing moment. She could call, of course, or simply drive over. Or, there was the path.
At first she dismissed the idea. It was dark now, and when she’d been across the path twice today, it had been in broad daylight. The woods would be trickier at night.
But she had a flashlight.
And if she used the path, she could check whether he was home without disturbing him. If he wasn’t there, she’d come back home and go back to her weaving. If he was, she could invite him over to her house for dinner. Besides, the night trek would be a fun adventure.
She began to giggle with anticipation. Taking the path over to Sam’s now seemed somewhat daring, the sort of spontaneous thing she hadn’t done enough of in her life. And the potential rewards were worth the small risk.
She put the screen in front of the fire, which had settled into a steady flame that no longer crackled and spit. She pulled the porch chair out of range, just in case, but the hearth was wide, and she wouldn’t be gone very long. She put her half-full wineglass on the hearth and went out to the kitchen.
Pulling on her jacket again and taking the flashlight from a drawer, she went out through the porch, leaving the doors open. Sam left his house unlocked all the time, she’d noticed, and she’d be back before long, anyway.
Once she’d moved out of the light from her kitchen window, she
realized how very black the night was in the country, especially with clouds hiding the stars. She switched on her flashlight and beamed it around the backyard until it bounced off the gray outcropping of rocks that marked the beginning of the path. With a shiver of excitement, she started toward it.
Eight
Sam stood in front of his open refrigerator and tried to work up some enthusiasm for making dinner. He hadn’t been able to get excited about much of anything all afternoon. Even his harmonica hadn’t interested him, because playing it only reminded him that Anna was in her house and he was in his.
He stared at the food illuminated by the ghostly light inside the refrigerator. Some leftover ham, a few eggs—he could make an omelet. He could make two omelets and offer one to Anna, assuming she hadn’t eaten. No, he wouldn’t. He should forget that idea. She needed time and he would give her time.
He took out the ham and put it back. Hot dogs. That would be easy. Hell, he wasn’t even hungry. Should he call her, find out if she’d eaten dinner? Wasn’t it pretty stupid for them to each eat alone when they were neighbors for Pete’s sake?
He pictured her weaving all afternoon, forgetting about food until her stomach began to growl. His grandmother had been like that, so absorbed in her work that everything else faded away. He still hadn’t seen what Anna was making. If he drove over and invited her in person, he could take a look at what was on the loom. Then, if she didn’t want to share supper with him, he’d simply admire her work and leave.
Either way he’d at least get to see her once more before she went back to New York. If he called, she might tell him she was busy, and he’d have to wait until next weekend when the work on the house would give them another opportunity to interact.
He’d drive over.
Grabbing his jacket, he went out the front door and hopped into the truck. As he backed around and headed down the driveway, he switched on the wipers to clear the windshield of a slight, drizzling rain. If Anna agreed to have supper with him, he’d build a fire tonight. He’d stored some wood under the back porch, and it would be dry.
He parked in her driveway beside her car and hurried up to the door. He smelled the smoke from her chimney and wondered if he’d be able to lure her out into a rainy night when she’d already made herself a warm fire. Maybe she’d ask him to stay and eat with her instead. He rapped on the door a second time.
While waiting for her to answer, he moved around restlessly under the shelter of the front overhang. What would he say? That his grandmother used to forget to eat while she was weaving, and he was here to offer support?
Yeah, he’d say that. Sounded as good as anything. He couldn’t very well tell her that he hadn’t been able to stay away, despite all his best intentions. But why on earth was it taking her so long to answer the door? He pounded louder and waited.
At last he clutched his jacket collar around his neck and trotted through the drizzle to the back of the house. Maybe she was in the kitchen and somehow hadn’t heard his knock. He dashed up the steps and opened the screen door of the back porch. “Anna?” he called, and walked across the porch to the back door.
She wasn’t in the kitchen. He could see that from the window as he passed. For the first time, he acknowledged the corkscrew of fear in his gut. Something was wrong.
He tried the back door, and it opened. “Anna?” he called again, louder this time. No answer. If she was soaking in a bubble bath and really hadn’t heard him, he’d apologize for walking into her house like this, but she was scaring him to death.
He covered the downstairs in no time and discovered the porch chair in the parlor, the weaving in progress and the wineglass on the hearth. He continued to call her name as he mounted the stairs, heart pounding. Either she wasn’t in the house, and that didn’t make sense with the fire smoldering and the wine still sitting there, or she was unconscious somewhere upstairs. He leaped up the remaining steps and ran toward the bathroom. Most accidents happened there.
In a few minutes he stood panting at the top of the stairs. She wasn’t anywhere. He’d checked everything, even closets, in case she’d passed out for some reason while she was putting something away. She was nowhere in the house.
Charging back down the steps, he ran through the parlor and out to his truck. He jerked the passenger door open and fumbled with the glove compartment latch. Finally, armed with a strong-beamed flashlight, he started a tour of the outside of the house while he continued to call her name.
He’d reached the backyard and rounded the woodpile, still shouting. Nothing. He thought of the path and rejected the idea that she’d be traipsing down it in this rain. But where else could she be?
Finally, in desperation, he picked out the outcropping of granite with his flashlight beam and plunged into the woods. This was madness. She wouldn’t take the path at night, would she? And for what reason? Yet having no other solution to her disappearance, he jogged along the sodden ground as fast as the terrain and darkness would allow.
By the time he reached the edge of the woods and started through the rows of Christmas trees, he was ready to alert the police. No more fooling around. His heavy breathing poured clouds of fog into the air in front of him. He’d call in the professionals, tell them to bring tracking dogs, fingerprint experts, whatever it took to get her back. He was numb with cold and fear.
He started running the last distance when he noticed a weak light reflected off the white clapboard siding of his house. And a shadow. Someone was there. Thinking it could be the same maniac who had abducted Anna, he snapped off his light and crept forward.
The person moved toward the parlor window and peered in. The light from the window shone on the top of carrot-red hair. Anna! His knees grew weak with relief. But what in hell was she up to?
He turned his flashlight back on and called out to her. “Anything interesting going on inside? Anybody running around naked?”
She gave a startled squeal and spun in his direction. “What are you doing out there?” she called.
“I’ll bet I have a better explanation for being out here than you have for being up there, peeping in my windows.”
“I wasn’t peeping! I was just….”
“Yes?”
“Well, I wondered if….”
“This should be good.” He reached the side of the house and stood in front of her, face to dripping face. “Okay,” he said, more interested in her story than in getting out of the drizzle. “What gives?”
The rain had darkened her hair, and damp ringlets clung to her forehead. Her eyelashes stuck together with the moisture, and her brown eyes seemed deeper and more velvety than ever before. “I, um, thought I’d have a little adventure, and it backfired,” she said. “But I still don’t understand what you’re doing wandering around in your backyard in the rain at night.”
“I was stalking adventure-seeking neighbors.”
“Sam, be serious!”
“If you want serious, you should have caught my act a few minutes ago, before I spotted you doing your Inspector Clouseau routine. When I couldn’t find you at your house, and the car was there and the wine and the fire, I got serious real fast.”
“You came to my house?”
“Yep.”
“And then came over on the path?”
“Bingo.”
“Oh, Sam.” She started to giggle and clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she managed, and giggled some more. “I’ve worried you, but honestly, I didn’t mean to.”
“What did you mean to do?”
“I…wondered if you were home or not. If you were, I was going to invite you to my house for dinner. If you weren’t, I was going to go back home. But then I got caught in the rain and I decided to wait it out on your porch.” She glanced up at him and her lips twitched, betraying her controlled impulse to smile. “I’m sorry I scared you, but I had no idea you’d show up at my place.”
“I guess not.”
“And come to think of it, I had a g
reat time, even with the rain.” She grinned. “I accomplished my mission and discovered that you weren’t home. The only down side was realizing I was going to have to spend the evening alone.”
He grinned back at her. “And that disappointed you, huh?”
“Uh-huh.” She chuckled. “I’m caught, aren’t I?”
“Uh-huh.” He clicked off the flashlight with his thumb. “And now you have to pay the price.” He drew her into his arms and relished every soggy point of contact as she came to him willingly. His lips met hers. She tasted like rain and wine, and something more intoxicating than either. She tasted of yes.
He kissed her as the rain from his soaked hair trickled inside the collar of his jacket. The heated welcome of her mouth made everything else unimportant, until the tension in his body demanded more than fevered kisses. He couldn’t undress her here. Much as he didn’t want to, he had to give up her yielding lips if he expected to gain all of her.
He lifted his head but kept her tight against him. “Let’s go in.”
“But your truck’s at my house,” she murmured.
“We don’t need the truck for what I have in mind.”
She gazed up at him. “But I left the fire, and—”
“Damn, you’re right. We’ll have to go back.”
“You never said why you drove over.”
“To invite you to supper.” He leaned down to nibble at her lips. His fingers itched to unzip her jacket, but the air was too cold. “Come on. We’ll check your fireplace and lock up before we drive over here.”
“Why drive back here? I could fix you supper at my place.”
“Because my house contains something yours likely doesn’t.” He decided not to give her more answer than that and let her figure it out. Or contradict him. Maybe she was more prepared for this eventuality than he thought, but he doubted it. Her boyfriend had left months ago, and by her own admission, she’d dated nobody since. The odds that she had condoms in her house were slim.
Her eyes glowed with sudden understanding. “All right,” she said softly. “Your house.”
'Tis the Season Page 9